Literature is the window to the soul.
it’s not even cringe; it’s just personal and unpolished and you’ve been taught to flinch away from vulnerability which doesn’t mock itself
homesick queasiness stirs in my stomach
empty loneliness lingering like my grandma’s hand-peeled apples and her home-made bread
homesick ugliness blinding my vision, lurid like the 7-11 sign opposite my apartment, bright yellow skittles chewed on the school playground
stars mock my tears
gleaming in the sky, taunting me, dancing like fireflies, they’re so beautiful, but they’re not home, and neither am i
homesick queasiness stirs in my stomach
i miss home.
It Calls me Home
Something about gentle breeze
and the quiet, bright nights
calls me homeward — teasing
at memories of childhood delights.
The sun sets in the summer
so late and so slow,
that the lovely colors
across all the town go.
It reminds me of days spent
sitting up high on dirt hills,
watching a dog prance
and smelling the field’s pearls.
It reminds me of dirty feet
stained with grass and prickled,
walking in the dewy green
that makes me squirm as it tickles.
It reminds me of the cool feeling
of a midnight swim
floating and splashing and laughing
in the lovely Summer dim.
It calls me home, a place I know.
It calls me home.
